Whoa, Nellie

Who in their right mind names a dog Kitty? Grace Minnaugh wondered as she trudged down the sidewalk. She already knew the answer — Mrs. Shelby, the cane-wielding old lady who lived four doors down from Grace in Floral Park, Ohio. Their neighbor had seemed old when Grace had been a toddler; now Grace was eleven and Mrs. Shelby seemed beyond ancient.

Midsummer sun streamed through the leaves of the giant oak trees lining the street, warming the back of Grace's neck as she made her way toward Mrs. Shelby's house. Kitty might be a fine nickname for an actual feline, or some plucky pioneer girl, Grace thought, but it is totally lame for a dog, especially a mangy old dog. But Mrs. Shelby made great decisions too. In fact, major thanks were due to Mrs. Shelby for offering Grace her first real summer job — walking Kitty four times a day for the whole summer. Grace's dad, Walter, had promised her part-time work at his psychology research lab at Ohio State, but it was against university policy for Walter to pay Grace — she was not only his daughter but also a minor. When her dad suggested they could make it work if she was willing to work for free, Grace told him to forget it. Why would she volunteer to feed rats and clean cages? When Mrs. Shelby offered her the cash-paying, Kitty-walking job, Grace grabbed it.

The schedule sucked for a regular kid with a normal social life who wanted to enjoy an easy breezy summer routine. Four walks a day — including the super early, nearly crack-of-dawn first walk — would be a deal breaker for most, but since Grace had no social life, it suited her fine. Between Kitty walks, Grace could go home and read to her heart's content. The summer would feel like one extended weekend.

Grace had long ago faced facts — she was a nerd. Not only that, but she was bony where other girls were curved, and freckled where other girls were smooth and peachy. She had steel-wool hair that refused to calm down, even when coated with anti-frizz oils, foams, and gels. Fashion bored Grace to tears and she couldn't figure it out anyway — skirts that were mini, maxi, or midi; pants came in a bewildering array of high-waisted, low-riding, or wide-legged; and when it came to tops, Grace had to choose between cropped, tunic, spaghetti-strapped, V-necked, or scoop-necked ... what the heck? As a result, Grace's summer wardrobe consisted of four T-shirts in black, red, green, and blue — which she wore in rotation — two pairs of cargo shorts, and one pair of jeans, if the weather turned unseasonably chilly. As for footwear, Grace lived in her trusty Trail Blazer hiking boots, rain or shine.

If all of this wasn't enough to cement Grace's utter un-coolness, she was also a complete and total klutz. In gym class, she couldn't manage to coordinate the clap with the jump while doing jumping jacks. She wobbled on her two-wheel bicycle, as if she'd barely gotten off training wheels. In short, the rising-and-falling coolness barometer of pop culture made no sense to Grace. She barely watched TV, thought video games were stupid, and had no time for social media stuff. Grace preferred to lose herself in a good book. It didn't require advanced calculus to figure out why no one wanted to hang out with her.

Grace was quite happy to spend the summer with Kitty and earn some pocket money besides. She planned to spend most of her non-Kitty walking time eating leftover secret-stash Halloween candy while reading (or rereading) her favorite books. Besides, if she got super bored she could always play with her brother, Stuey, though she was finding it harder and harder to play make-believe games with a four-year-old. Or maybe her mother, Minerva, would let her help out in the studio. She used to let Grace do all sorts of fun chores, especially when her mom felt "a little under the weather." While her mom lay on the studio couch and gazed dreamily out the window, Grace would slather thick layers of gesso across stretched linen canvases or double-check that the tops of the paint tubes were screwed on tight. She loved the smell of her mother's studio — the tang of turpentine, the woodsy odor of the thick charcoal pencils, the clay-stink of wax crayons. But the studio had been closed and shuttered for months, and Grace could not remember when her mother had last picked up a brush.

Thinking about her downer mother put a damper on Grace's own mood, but she was determined not to let such thoughts get in the way of what could be an awesome summer of books, bon bons, and Kitty-walking. She walked up the path through Mrs. Shelby's front yard, passing neat rows of lavender geraniums, lavender roses, lavender impatiens, and three garden gnomes with newly painted lavender beards. Lavender beards? thought Grace. Maybe Mrs. Shelby has lost more than her ability to name and walk her own dog.

Ten dollars a day for a little dog walking, though — that was seventy big ones a week, more money than Grace had ever had in her entire life! By summer's end she would be loaded. Even if she had to scoop a bit of poop, making that kind of cash was worth a little craziness.

Grace rang the bell. Mrs. Shelby pulled the inner curtain aside and peered out, brandishing her cane like a sword.

"Hi, Mrs. Shelby!" Grace called cheerily. "It's me, Grace, here to take Kitty out. Remember?"

It took Mrs. Shelby a moment, but once she realized the identity of the girl at the door, she opened it. Mrs. Shelby was a slightly larger version of one of her garden gnomes, minus the elfish attire and full beard. Her short, curly hair was a light shade of lavender, and she had the same chubby rosy cheeks and impish grin. She was shorter than Grace, but twice as wide — all soft folds and sweetness, like a delicious piece of lavender chiffon pie.

"Oh, Gracie dear. Come in, come in. You're just in the nick of time. Kitty was starting to get a bit anxious." Mrs. Shelby hooked her cane over her wrist and cupped her hands around her mouth. "Here, Kitty!" she screeched.

Almost immediately, Kitty came scampering down the hallway, toenails click-clacking on the hardwood floor like the castanets of a Spanish dancer. Her stumpy legs barely supported her sausage of a body, with a stomach so bloated it skimmed the floor. One eye was coated in a white film, and her fur resembled a patchy cross between a scouring pad and a moldy toupee. The poor dog smelled like week-old lunchmeat.

There was no doubt about it — Kitty was a butt-ugly creature, but what she lacked in looks, she made up for in unbridled canine enthusiasm. She tried to leap up on Grace, but her stumpy legs and rolling belly kept her permanently earthbound.

"Better get her outside before she has an accident," warned Mrs. Shelby. Shuffling toward a hallway table, she handed Grace a set of keys, Kitty's leash, a supply of plastic baggies, and a pack of towelettes. "Keep the keys. It's not so easy for me to get up and down these days, and this way you can let yourself back in when you are done."

Grace glanced at the towelettes and cringed.

"They're for your hands, dear," Mrs. Shelby told her. "Just in case things get messy."

Grace looked down at Kitty, who stared up at her with adoring, eager eyes. Please don't mess with, on, or anywhere near me! thought Grace. She hooked Kitty's leash to the dog's lavender — of course! — collar...